


For a Definition of Useful

by timeless_alice



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Body Horror, Canon Rewrite (kind of), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Mild Gore, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, loss of senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeless_alice/pseuds/timeless_alice
Summary: Perceptor nearly dies on a mission, and in the aftermath decides to make himself more useful for the war effort. His reaction is maybe a little less than ideal.





	For a Definition of Useful

There is something to be said about the visceral horror that comes with a hole being blown through one’s chest. With time slowing to a crawl as one is thrown back, body taking precious moments before it recognizes “injury” and responds with “agony.” A kick aimed at his shoulder to roll him onto his back before he could drag himself to safety, to be greeted with a gun leveled at his face. Its trigger squeezed before he had the chance to open his mouth and beg for some semblance of mercy, or even just to scream.

Perceptor lay where he had fallen, clinging to consciousness even as his systems were shutting down. His one still operating optic – the one not blown out with the rest of the right side of his face – flickered, giving him a stuttering view of the battle that had broken out between the Wreckers and the Decepticons. Even then, the image was distorted: static twitching and dead pixels filed through a spider web crack, sending corrupted signals to an increasingly dizzy brain module. All the while his right audio receptor crackled and popped, sound spiking with the cracks of gunfire to add another layer of stabbing pain on top of everything else, before it shut down completely, leaving only the left receptor operational.

Someone – a Decepticon, it had to be, probably the one who’d shot his optic out – planted a foot on his midsection with little care for the fact Perceptor was still functioning, and fired. He wanted to cry out for help; the panic that had taken hold of him, the spark deep terror that he was on the verge of dying, choked out the logical part of him that knew they couldn’t help him like a weed. And more still, his voice refused to work, not even to produce a faint whimper to show a fraction of his pain. The pressure intensified, with the Decepticon putting more of his weight on Perceptor, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything but lie there and try to make sense of the chaos around him.

Soon his remaining optic gave out, in a pop of bright, white light before leaving him in darkness, with only the one receptor to rely on to have any idea of what was going on at all. And its volume was beginning to fluctuate; growing steadily softer with occasional upward swings of incoherent white noise interspersed with indistinguishable shouting and gunshots. It was only a matter of time before that was lost to him, too, as his body rerouted its systems and energy from non-vital areas to areas that had a more dire need for it. A dim corner of his mind that had a desperate grasp on his all his reasoning as a scientist suggested that the gesture was futile; his spark was exposed, and there was only so much he could do without medical help.

The noises dimmed into nothing, and it was either due to his hearing finally giving out or the battle moving outside his range; not that the difference mattered much at all, he was left in silence and darkness in complete agony that was dulled only a few degrees by a system reshuffle. He sat at the cusp of unconsciousness, floating in some kind of oppressive void cut off from his friends and allies, simply waiting. For death, he was almost certain. The Wreckers, ever the pragmatists, likely thought him dead already and left him behind. Or maybe they had been overwhelmed by the Decepticon’s superior numbers and were all dead themselves.

Almost all paths seemed to point to him dying alone and scared. The obvious fate of a noncombatant daring to run with a group like the Wreckers on missions, even on orders from the likes of Prowl. He could hardly even fire a gun, what had he been thinking agreeing to go along? As the blackness hovering at the edges of his mind began to take hold, shaking him free from the remains of consciousness, he was left with the small, cowardly wish that he had never left his lab in the first place.

…

Much to his surprise, Perceptor didn’t die. Instead, he awoke hooked into a CR chamber and to a rush of disorienting, overwhelming input that made his head spin. Too much all at once, without the comfort of familiar surroundings to ground him, and his newly back-online mind struggled to process it in a way that didn’t fall under a chaotic whirl of unclear information.

Before he managed to tear himself away from wires connected to his chest and face, risking further injury that he wasn’t sure he could afford, he found the sense of mind to reel in his panic. Carefully, fighting against the terror of being helpless that was threatening to overtake him, he picked through and categorized what his senses were telling him. He was alone in what looked to be an infirmary – there was nothing he could see that pointed toward one faction or the other, and while he had an inherent awareness that the Decepticons would have left him for dead, part of that helpless fear begged with a burning desperation for him to be in Autobot hands. He pressed down that feeling, and continued to take stock.

There was a quiet hum of conversation, just loud enough for him to tell it was there, audible above the noise of the chamber. His right eye was not working, and despite the jolt of panic that pulsed along his circuits, he forced back the idea that it was the result of permanent damage. It was offline for repairs, that was all. He was alive, and though the memory of staring down the barrel of a gun crowded his thoughts, Perceptor pushed it away, replacing it with analytics of his current situation. He could not let himself get lost in fear; he would drown in it, and be even less useful to the cause than he already was.

It only took a minute or two for someone to show up. Blurr, he realized, a haze still lingering in his newly conscious mind making take several seconds to place the face to a name. The small corner of doubt he had, about the medibay he was in not being Autobot, stamped out in a flash of relief, allowing more of his rational self take over. He was being ridiculous, and it wasn't the time for such things. A look of guilt crossed Blurr’s face, for just a moment, and Perceptor noted the high probability that Blurr was supposed to be keeping an eye on him. But the look was soon gone, replaced with a look of delighted relief.

Perceptor couldn't bring himself to smile back at him. He had to keep his mind clear, settle into the familiar patterns of scientific planning, to plot out what to do next. Something had to be done, so he wouldn't be in that position again. More importantly, so he wouldn't be a liability anymore. All the while a tiny, yet still very nagging part of him, insisted he take a step back and reevaluate what happened, and on whom the blame should truly be pinned. He ignored it.

Blurr made short work of retrieving him from the chamber, chattering all the while. Perceptor only caught half of what he said, in part due to Blurr’s speech dipping into its occasional habit of leaving no pauses between words and in part due to a sharp, icy jolt that ran along his spinal strut at an utterance of “we thought you were going to die.” He fought against the memory of the split instance between the initial shot and him hitting the floor.

The world wavered for a moment, as he stepped onto solid ground. Blurr kept a steadying hand on his shoulder as Perceptor regained his bearings, before letting go to allow him to stand on his own volition, while remaining close enough to catch him should he fall over. Perceptor waved him away with one hand, and raised the other to touch just below his right eye as it flickered online to join his left. The picture was fuzzy, imperfect, as if there was something wrong with the connection between the world around him and the information his optic relayed to his brain. Likely, he thought, a result of it going online after being offline so long during an extensive repair.

“I should probably tell the others you're awake,” Blurr said. “Springer and Kup and that Drift guy- they'd like to know.”

For the first time since awakening, Perceptor was shocked into the physical present instead of his internal calculations and categorizing. He tilted his head just slightly and said, “Why Drift?” He, of course, remembered the warrior with his peculiar make that had caught his eye, whose stealth was out of place with the Wreckers usual flare for the explosive. But nothing else after that.

Blurr frowned. “Didn't I say? He's the one that saved you. I think it’s the only reason they’re letting him sticking around.”

Perceptor clasped his hands behind his back, straining to get a clearer picture through his eye by way of adjusting optical shutters, and made a soft sound of confirmation. “My apologies,” he said, a slight clicking noise to his words as his voice box adjusted to suddenly being on after an extended period of being off. “I'm still getting my bearings.” A squint made images a little sharper, but it made his HUD more than a little disorientating to read, and the effort was a rather dizzying affair. After a moment of this, he gave up. He looked around the room and said, “I would like to be alone for a while, but you may tell the others.”

For a fraction of a second, Blurr hesitated, looking as if he were going to protest leaving Perceptor alone, but he sped off without another word. With the room vacant of bots, save for him, once more, Perceptor set to work without worry that someone may try to stop him. He pulled up internal diagnostics, allowing himself a certain detachment so he would not lose himself in the dark expanse of memories. It was in the past, he told himself, there was no use dwelling on it in ways that didn’t allow him to move forward.

Most of what was there was what he’d already known, or suspected. Major damage to right optic, minor damage to right audio receptor. Major damage to his breastplate and several internal workings; he tried to keep his hands from trembling at the notes regarding the state his spark casing had been in. Note after note of system shutdowns and rerouting, from even after his vision had given out. He shut it down; almost none of that information was relevant to his intentions and did nothing more than aggravate frayed nerves he was trying to calm.

He tapped at his breastplate with light fingers, that still had a slight tremble to them despite his best efforts, frowning at how easily it'd been blown apart as if it were nothing. His first move, if anything, should be to armor himself. Protect his spark, give himself a bit of a fighting chance, should anything else happen. And it would, an inevitable fact of being assigned to Kup, and the Wreckers by proxy.

By nature of the room being an infirmary on a battleship, populated by soldiers more reckless and active than him, there were good odds he would find materials he’d be able to cobble together for something useful. He was nothing if not a good scientist, and could make due with what he had, even if it resulted in a rush job. He could always go back and adapt, alter things for an improved result as he would with any less-than-stellar experiment. Something inside him pointed out with a quiet meekness, almost silenced by his conviction, that he shouldn’t be referring to what he was about to do as an “experiment.” It was his body, not some interesting trinket he found. This, like everything else, was shoved to the side, compartmentalized.

Perceptor let himself fall into the methodological, almost borderline mindless task, which further allowed him to step away from pressing matters of reality. As he gathered materials (welding tools, a stock of adamant crystal) and stripped himself of what was to be modified (his scope, arm plating, breastplate), he could almost pretend his task was for something other than the instinctual terror that refused to be banished from the back of his mind. He dismissed any acknowledgement of it, and dove deeper into his project.

Sniping, he rationalized as he worked, was the best option for him. It was cold, and detached, with no need to get up close to an enemy. It was nothing but equations to factor as a sniper readied his shot from his perch, out of sight. It was all numbers, almost beautiful in its mathematical simplicity. And with Perceptor’s already existing skill with precision, honed from centuries upon centuries of careful work as a top of the line scientist, it was even more clear this would be the soldier role for him. The transition, mentally, would be easy.

Showing up Prowl for his apparent wish to see Perceptor dead would be a fine side effect, too. Even if that thought in and of itself sent a faint pang of disappointment through him.

As minutes stretched on, it became increasingly evident that the vision in his right eye was not going to improve. He tried to bite down the frustration, as he could still see out of it for the most part. It, at worst, only slowed him down as his left eye had to compensate when he wasn’t straining for a clearer image. He adjusted his plan for a reticle to include the properties of normal glasses; he made no plan to mention it to anyone, and would keep the reticle on at all times, “just in case.”

Soon, Blurr returned with Kup, Springer, and Drift in tow. Perceptor turned to face them at Kup’s announcement of their presence, causing him to falter at the sight of Perceptor’s exposed spark. Likewise Springer vocalized his discomfort, averting his gaze in a way that was not so much polite as simply a show of deep embarrassment. Drift for his part remained silent, unbothered; of course, ex-Decepticon. Exposed sparks had a bit more normalcy for the faction than the Autobots.

“I’ve just finished my new breastplate,” Perceptor said, flipping up his welding mask. He rattled off some information about its make, in an attempt that seemed weak even to him to appear like his usual loquacious self. He lifted the newly armored plate onto his chest, hiding his spark from view of the others, before lowering it again so he could reapply his Autobrand.

Kup made a grunting noise, sounding still caught off guard from the sight. “Glad you’re feeling better,” he said, a little flippantly. Like he was trying to make the situation as normal as possible, which was all right by Perceptor, who simply wanted to get back to what he’d been doing without interruption.

“Thanks to Drift, I’m told,” he said, throwing a look over his shoulder at the still silent Drift. “Much obliged.” Distracted as he was, memories began to crawl to the surface. Him lying on the ground, staring up at this assailant in the foolish hope that he’d not pull the trigger on someone wounded and unarmed. He suppressed a shudder and in the most even voice he could manage, he went on, “But lying there with a massive...aperture in my chest.” His pause was miniscule, lasting barely a fraction of a second, and he hoped no one noticed the slight hesitation. He had no desire to answer any prying questions they may have. “I won’t let that happen again.”

His small show of honesty appeared to do the trick, as the others asked no more questions. They milled around him, watching him work with a silent sort of curiosity he was full prepared to ignore, allowing them to just become part of the background. He could hear Kup and Springer mutter to each other, in the way old war friends do, but made no effort to discern what they were saying. Drift stayed silent, and a twinge of gratitude pulsed through Perceptor for just a brief moment; gratitude for his silence, and most importantly of all, for his role in saving his life. He did not know the details - it was possible Blurr had told him about whatever daring maneuver the bot had performed and Perceptor simply could not recall - but he appreciated it nonetheless. He doubled down on his modifications.

He felt Kup staring at him, as he tinkered with the circuitry in his wrist, and he spoke with only mild exasperation, “These stabilizers will help me improve my aim.”

There was something incredulous in Kup’s tone as he said, “Why? We need you at work in the lab.”

Perceptor snapped his forearm closed and stood. “My scope can be used for other things. Things more useful in this war. And,” he paused to look at Drift, “In repaying my debt to Drift.”

Kup scoffed, retorting that there was no debt to be repaid. All Drift did was do his job, which was all any of them could do in the war. Perceptor offered no counter, even as his thoughts chased themselves in circles. What would the point of a rescue be if he only ended up in that position again? Would he ever find himself with someone who wouldn't risk their own safety for him? He locked those down, refusing to let himself fall into that well and give into the feelings of helplessness and uselessness that bit at him.

Before Kup had a chance to go on more of a lecture, drawing on his years of experience as a soldier no doubt, a message from Blaster interrupted them. A faint incoming from Hot Rod, about how there was a Decepticon battleship on his tail and he needed assistance. The others, more combat ready, ran from the infirmary to intercept it, leaving Perceptor behind. He would join them in due time, when he was ready.

He was almost prepared, having tweaked and adjusted his crosshair eyepiece to compensate for his optical’s poor vision in addition to acting as a sniper’s tool; ready to provide calculations in the instances before he’d take a shot. A smaller version of his scope. All that was left was for him to make the proper modifications so it would fit into his face, like a typical optical. A bit extreme, Perceptor was well aware, but a necessity.

As he held the blowtorch in his hand, performing a manual redirection of his systems to minimize pain, he received a comm from Kup. A simple command, to stay behind on the ship while the others went to aid Hot Rod. There was an added note that Perceptor wasn’t ready to be back out in the field, no yet; Perceptor thought, for a moment, that he should feel some satisfaction that he’d be able to prove himself, but instead just felt strangely hollow. He brushed it aside, paid it no attention, chalking it up to just being too focused to be distracted.

“You’re right, Kup. I’m not ready- yet.” His tone was matter of fact. With his back to the video screen Kup watched him through, he brought the blowtorch to his face. “I’ll keep an eye on things from here.”

The metal gave way easily, and soon he was able to fit the eyepiece into place. The room around him fell into sharp clarity, as if his eye had never sustained damage in the first place. He smiled, small and just a ghost of an expression, taking in the new input and numbers that would help him in his new purpose.

Taking a moment to let the metal around his new optic cool, and to reset his receptors to their normal configuration - resulting in a faint tingling sensation that sat just below proper pain, right at an annoyance - he collected himself, to join the battle down on the ground. Despite Kup’s orders, the best thing for him to do was to join in and put a stop to things before they got worse. Or, at the very least, provide any assistance he could. Soon, he stepped out of the infirmary to find the ship’s weapons locker and retrieve something suitable for his needs: a white sniper rifle. The only thing left to do was to touch down and join the others. He was ready.

 

Perceptor watched the battle from a distance, feeling an odd sort of serenity as the battle went on, even as his allies got pummeled by the hulking Monstructor. He was detached, ready for action, waiting for the right moment. Then, after the thing had grounded Springer with an acidic blast to his rotorblades, Perceptor spotted his opening.

He lifted his gun, took aim, and fired.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is. The first part of a two part thing. It was originally supposed to be one big thing but it got out of control and way too long so, here we go!
> 
> Anyway, come catch me on tumblr at timelessmulder


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